


(chemically drawn) closer to you

by Flowerparrish



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Begging, Bottom Clint Barton, Crying During Sex, Crymaxing, Established Relationship, Frottage, Kinktober 2019, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-negotiated Consent, Sex Pollen, Top Steve Rogers, Unsafe Sex, articulated consent, bc supersoldiers and handwavey things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 01:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20940011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish
Summary: Clint has—many times, and at great length—bemoaned the unnecessary paperwork that SHIELD makes them all fill out. It often seems like they come up with three new hypothetical scenarios each week, and they expect the whole team to fill out paperwork on how to handle each one.The sex pollen one—not that that was what SHIELD had called it, but Clint and Tony refused to call it anything else—wasn’t even the weirdest or most unlikely. Filling it out had been a no-brainer; Clint and Steve had been pretty regularly sleeping together by that point. It seemed almost redundant, at the time. Of course they’d go to each other; what was the point of having a boyfriend if you couldn’t go to them in a fuck-or-die situation?Now, it’s a lot less hypothetical, and Clint’s a little relieved that the weirdly formal consent was established before both of them lost the faculties to agree to this.





	(chemically drawn) closer to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).

> For candycanedarcy, my one true bro; I hope you enjoy this sex pollen fuckfest. You deserve it. <3
> 
> Thanks to Robin for beta reading!

It’s not until Steve and Clint can’t stop making out in the back of the Quinjet that the thought occurs to Clint, distant under the haze of lust that’s been creeping up on him, overtaking his thoughts—_something’s wrong. _

It takes a Herculean effort to pull away from Steve’s warm mouth, to open his eyes and look at the others and ask, “What the fuck?”

Steve’s mouth redirects, undeterred, moving down to press kisses to Clint’s jaw and down his neck. It’s unbearably distracting, and Clint wants to just close his eyes again and melt into the sensation…

He refocuses.

“Nat,” he says, desperately, plaintively. “What the fuck?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one who got doused in an unknown substance by Hydra agents,” she points out. “What do you think?” She looks distinctly unimpressed, and Clint thinks that’s unfair. He’d like to see _her _try and think through the fog that’s making it hard to string two thoughts together.

“Sex pollen,” Tony’s voice calls from the cockpit—and no, Clint does not mentally snort at the name, he’s _fine. _

The words process, after a few drawn out seconds, and apparently the only words Clint knows right now are “what the fuck,” but they’re so applicable that it hardly matters.

Bruce pushes his way forward, a needle in his hands, and aw, needles, no. “I need a blood sample,” Bruce says apologetically.

“Just me,” Clint has enough clarity to remember, to say. Steve is clearly a little too preoccupied to advocate for himself here, and it’s _Bruce, _but also—no blood samples when he can’t consent.

Bruce nods. “I just need to see what it’s doing to your body,” he says. “I can extrapolate from there.”

It’s too many words for Clint to parse with his thoughts this scrambled; Bruce agreed to what Clint asked, he gets that much, and that’s all he needs.

Clint holds out an arm, notices that his hand is curled into a fist—huh, what’s that about?

It hits him, then, the force of the _need _pounding through him with every beat of his heart. It’s more than lust, it’s—everything. The _only _thing.

“Fuck, Bruce, c’mon,” Clint grits out, because he’s not sure how long he can keep a handle on this. He can feel it _building, _with every pulse, and he’s absolutely going to lose himself to it sooner rather than later.

His eyes slip closed as he focuses on breathing; he barely feels the prick of the needle in his skin.

“Done,” he distantly hears Bruce say, and that’s it—Clint lets go.

He’s been trying to separate himself from his body; now, abruptly, sensations rush back in. The feel of Steve’s large hands gripping at his hips hard enough to bruise; the place where his inner thighs press against the outside of Steve’s legs. Clint’s aware, suddenly, that he’s kneeling in Steve’s lap, and the hand that’s not attached to the arm Bruce was just drawing blood from is fisted in Steve’s hair.

Clint whimpers as Steve nips and sucks at his neck, rolls his hips down against Steve, and whines as the friction makes the _need _that’s overwhelming him ramp up a few notches.

He tugs Steve’s head back—Steve groans and resists for a moment before giving in to Clint’s insistence—and Steve’s eyes meet his, pupils blown so wide that Clint can only see the smallest ring of blue.

Clint grinds down against Steve again, desperately seeking more friction than he can get from this angle, and groans, “Steve, fuck, baby, I gotta—”

Steve’s nodding immediately. “Anything,” he agrees, voice rough and breathless simultaneously.

That’s a whole lot of leeway and Clint wants _everything, _so he doesn’t even know where to start. Desperate, he snags the first thought that pops into his head and goes with it, sliding abruptly off of Steve’s lap and down to the floor of the jet. The _thunk _as his knees hit the hard metal reverberates through his body and he doesn’t spare a thought for the dull pain that flares in response to his impact with the floor; his hands are already going for Steve’s outfit, full of too many buckles and neatly hidden—aka impossible to _undo—_zippers.

Distantly, he hears the others making a general commotion and vacating the space—Clint’s _almost _aware enough to be amused at the idea of the whole team crammed into the cockpit, but not quite—but all he cares about is freeing Steve’s cock, because he’s horny and desperate and the line of it in Steve’s pants is driving him _crazy. _

Clint’s shaking hands make the whole ordeal take longer than it needs to—longer than _he _needs it to—but then, all at once, Steve’s cock is free from his pants.

Clint takes less than a moment to admire Steve’s cock—it absolutely deserves more than the half-second Clint can spare, _but _on the bright side, this isn’t the first time Clint’s sucked Steve’s dick and it won’t be the last—before he’s reaching out, one hand closing around Steve’s hip and the other holding the base of Steve’s dick. He swallows Steve down in one motion; there’s no build up to the main event, just desperation fueling his need to feel Steve’s hard length pulsing hot in his throat.

Clint is too frantic to go slowly; he works Steve over quick and dirty and more than a little sloppy, but Steve is equally frantic, so that’s probably fine. Steve has one hand in Clint’s hair, the other on Clint’s shoulder, and he’s fucking Clint’s face relentlessly. Tears are streaming down Clint’s face; Clint can barely breathe; he loves _every second _of it. When Steve finally comes, spilling hot down Clint’s throat, Clint swallows greedily, drinking down as much as he can before allowing what’s left to dribble down his jaw.

Steve’s breathing hard, fingers clenched in Clint’s hair, but Clint’s too worked up to do _nothing, _to _wait. _He presses biting, bruising kisses to Steve’s hip, Steve’s thighs, listens to Steve’s breath hitch somewhere vaguely above him every time he sucks a dark bruise into Steve’s pale skin.

It doesn’t take long before Steve’s tugging Clint up even as he’s sliding himself to the floor. He manages to undo Clint’s pants with slightly less difficulty, has the presence of mind to lick his own hand, and then he’s stroking Clint’s cock—firm, hard, fast, ruthless.

It is, one hundred percent, no exaggeration, _the _best thing Clint has ever felt in his life.

He drops his head to Steve’s shoulder with a groan, biting his lip so hard he tastes blood—oops. His hips are thrusting into Steve’s hand wildly, gracelessly; he can feel his orgasm approaching rapidly and he can’t stop chasing it anyway, needing some kind of relief.

He cries out when he comes and everything goes white for a bit. When he regains some semblance of awareness, his face is wet from tears and he can _almost _string thoughts together again.

“Fuck,” he says. He shouldn’t be able to get hard again this soon, but he can feel his body trying anyway. Steve’s hands have moved to Clint’s hips, stroking across his hipbones. Clint’s weight is slumped against Steve’s chest, his head buried in Steve’s neck, but he pulls away and licks at his bottom lip—coppery, ew. “You good?”

Steve’s pupils are still blown wide, and it looks like it takes him a second to decide what to answer. After a moment, he nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “You?”

“Yeah.” Clint drops his head back down onto Steve’s shoulder and settles in against him, praying that _maybe _they can get back to the tower before the overwhelming _need _overtakes them again.

**

Clint has—many times, and at great length—bemoaned the unnecessary paperwork that SHIELD makes them all fill out. It often seems like they come up with three new hypothetical scenarios each week, and they expect the whole team to fill out paperwork on how to handle each one.

The sex pollen one—not that that was what SHIELD had called it, but Clint and Tony refused to call it anything else—wasn’t even the weirdest or most unlikely. Filling it out had been a no-brainer; Clint and Steve had been pretty regularly sleeping together by that point, had gone out on a few dates and held hands and generally did things that made Clint’s insides warm and gooey, and it was easy to say that if anything like that went down, they’d go to each other.

It seemed almost redundant, at the time. _Of course _they’d go to each other; what was the point of having a boyfriend if you couldn’t go to them in a fuck-or-die situation?

Now, it’s a lot less hypothetical, and Clint’s a little relieved that the weirdly formal consent was established before both of them lost the faculties to agree to this. He’s not saying he’d come back to himself and regret that he was with Steve in a fuck-or-die situation; but it removes one level of fucked up from this whole scenario.

Clint can’t control his urges, right now, can’t stop himself from trying to suffocate himself on Steve’s dick and _liking it, _but he can cling to the knowledge that this is _Steve, _the person he _chose _and the person he trusts, and _that’s _okay, even if everything else isn’t.

**

It seems to hit Steve again before it hits Clint. Steve’s breathing speeds up, his hands clenched tight against Clint’s hips.

They’re making out so heavily that they fail to notice anyone approaching, and when they’re abruptly doused with cold water, they jolt apart.

“Fuck!” Clint yelps, falling back on his bare ass, tac pants tangled around his knees. He glares up at Natasha, who looks entirely unsympathetic.

“C’mon,” she says, setting aside a bucket—where had _that _come from—and reaching down to yank Clint up onto his feet. She pulls his pants up while she’s at it, and then he’s being pulled away from the Quinjet (and, more importantly, from _Steve), _down the exit ramp and into the tower’s landing bay.

“But—” he tries to say.

“Not now,” she snaps back in response. There’s an edge in her voice, so he follows her quietly, even though he’s starting to feel twitchy and hot under his skin and he wants Steve pressed against him so badly he _aches _with it.

She leads him to the elevator and punches the button for his floor. She crosses her arms and doesn’t look at him, and Clint starts to contemplate that maybe she’s angry with him for something.

“Uh, Nat?”

She levels him with an icy glare, but under it, he can see that she’s just _scared. _

The answering chill of fear that rises in him combats some of the burning _need _in his veins. “What’s up?”

“I don’t like this,” she admits.

“I mean, I’m not a huge fan either,” he admits. The elevator doors open onto his floor, and she reaches out, fingers closing around his wrist as she pulls him into his apartment.

“Cold shower,” she tells him. “And then we can talk.”

He groans but does as told, turning on the shower in his master suite and leaving it cold as fuck. He ducks under the spray and bites his lip to keep from shouting at the feel of it on his skin, but all that does it remind his lip to start bleeding again.

He stays under the spray for a few minutes, allowing it to combat the rise in his body temperature and clear his head a little. He towels off haphazardly and pulls on a pair of loose boxers before moving into the main part of his apartment once more, seeking out Natasha.

She’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, and she offers him a plate stacked high with sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly—pretty much the only food she’s capable of making. “Eat,” she says.

He leans next to her and does as asked. He hadn’t realized he was hungry, but when the first bite hits his stomach, it begins to scream for more.

“Bruce says you’ll be fine,” Natasha tells him while he eats. “It’s going to take a while to burn out of your system—a day or so, two at most—and Steve will metabolize it faster, but it’s probably going to hit him a lot harder in the meantime.”

Clint nods, shrugs. “Am I in immediate danger?”

She hums, thoughtful. “No,” she allows. “Your body should be able to handle it. But…” she trails off.

“What?” he prods. His mouth is full of half-chewed sandwich, but she doesn’t even look disgusted by him—she’s had too much exposure to him, probably.

“Neither of you is in your right mind,” she points out. “It’s hardly _safe.” _

“We filled out the paperwork,” Clint points out.

“Yes, but…” She trails off. Sighs. “Do you trust him?”

“Yes,” Clint says. The answer is automatic, easy.

She’s still tense for a moment, but then, all at once, she relaxes. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll have Tony bring him here.”

She leans over and kisses Clint’s cheek, lips cool against his skin, flushed as whatever drug HYDRA had managed to dose him and Steve begins burning under his skin once more.

Then she’s gone, and Clint’s left with a stomach that’s lost interest in food and a half plate of sandwiches. He abandons the plate on the counter and goes over to the couch, collapsing onto it in a heap of limbs.

He doesn’t even _mean _to start jerking off; one moment, he’s thrumming with energy and need, and the next his hand is tugging at his cock as he tries to get himself off.

He’s grateful that he doesn’t have to find out whether or not the sex pollen trope of not being able to get yourself off has become his new reality. Instead, Steve comes barreling out of the elevator, zeroing in on Clint and moving to him with a truly improbable speed.

He drops to his knees in front of Clint and it’s like their positions from before are reversed. He swallows around Clint’s cock, the feel of wet heat and suction registering almost before Clint sees Steve’s lips wrap around him, and he thrusts up into Steve’s mouth, instinctively seeking more. “Fuck,” he breaths out on a sigh.

Sex feels _better _like this; he doesn’t know how to rationalize it. Maybe it’s the desperation thrumming through him, the way it feels like he’s never gotten off in his _life, _the way it feels like he’s been on edge for _days. _It’s intense as hell, and he’s so grounded in his body that it’s like his focus has narrowed down to the places where Steve’s body touches his—like those are the only parts of his body worth focusing on.

He comes with a startled cry before he can even think to warn Steve—not that it seems to matter, if the way Steve swallows around him means anything.

Clint slumps further into the cushions of the couch, feeling a little relief post-orgasm. The desperation is still there, though, under the surface. “C’mere,” Clint pants, tugging at Steve’s hair.

Steve moves faster than Clint’s sluggish brain can register; Clint blinks, and Steve is straddling his lap, leaning down to kiss him. It’s hot and urgent and Clint shoves his hand down Steve’s pants and jerks him off, quick and rough, feeling a thrill—and a whole-body pulse of desperation—when Steve comes, crying out against Clint’s lips.

Clint wipes his hand on the inside of Steve’s sweatpants and then wraps his arms around Steve, tugging him down so he’s mostly on top of Clint. Steve’s too heavy for this to be a long-term plan, but right now Clint just wants to be close and feel Steve’s body against his while they catch their breath.

“I love you,” Clint says after a bit, still breathless. “By the way.”

Steve laughs softly. “Love you too,” he says. “You okay?”

“Mm, so far,” Clint allows. “You?”

Steve nods, nose brushing against Clint’s neck from where Steve’s head is tucked under Clint’s chin. “Just--need you,” he admits. Clint can feel Steve’s dick, already hard again, pressing against his thigh. He shifts a little underneath Steve’s bulk so that he can rock up against Steve, feels his heart clench from too many feelings--most of them distinctly sexual feelings, but some of them softer, more affectionate--when Steve lets out a whimper. 

“I got you,” Clint promises. “Just let go.” 

Steve whimpers again, softly, nuzzles against Clint’s neck even as his hips roll down, grinding his cock against Clint’s thigh. 

Clint does his best to follow Steve’s movements, but there’s no rhythm to his motions. The info Nat relayed from Bruce must have been correct; Steve’s more consistently on edge than Clint, or so it seems. 

The fact that whatever they were dosed with will last longer in Clint’s system sucks, though. Clint’s going to be so fucked out by the end of this--he’s not even 100% sure it’ll be in the _good _way by the time he’s done. 

Steve, for his part, is going to reach that phase of fucked out way faster. Lucky for him, he’s got a supersoldier body to help _him _handle it; Clint’s just a guy a little past his prime with a dick that _hurts _trying to get hard again this fast. 

Clint abruptly loses his train of thought when Steve bites at his neck and starts to suck a bruise there. Clint wonders if there’s any of his neck left unmarked, or if Steve’s just darkening what’s already there; he suspects it’s the latter, if the intensity of the sparks of pain shooting through Clint, straight from Steve’s mouth to his cock, are anything to judge by. 

Clint’s stuck in a feedback loop of pleasure and pain and desperation, and it’s a little too much to handle. Even as he _wants _more, he forces himself to reach up to tug at Steve’s hair. “Too much,” he says, tugging Steve’s mouth away from his neck. 

Steve pulls away obligingly. “Sorry.”

“Not--” Clint moans as Steve’s next roll of his hips drags his leg up against Clint’s hard cock. “Fuck, not your fault,” he finishes. 

He cups Steve’s jaw with the hand that was previously tugging at Steve’s hair, pulls him in for a kiss. Clint quickly gets lost in it, drinking in the noises Steve’s making and the taste of himself on Steve’s tongue. 

When Steve comes, Clint swallows down the noise of that too, stroking his fingers against Steve’s cheek. “Better?” Clint asks, when Steve’s lips go from slack against Clint’s mouth to moving with steady purpose once more. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He pushes back, looks down at Clint, and seems to realize the position they’re in for the first time. “Am I crushing you?”

Clint pouts. “I’m big and sturdy too.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, which was Clint’s whole plan. “I’m bigger,” he points out. 

Clint winks at him. “Yeah you are.” It’s true enough--they’re both big, though, and Clint could never resent that Steve’s dick is bigger when he gets to have it in his ass so often. 

Steve snorts. It should be unattractive, but it’s adorable instead. It makes Clint’s heart do that _thing _again--the one where he should just be feeling soft, but feeling _anything _makes him horny instead. “Bed?” Steve offers. 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, because Steve _is _squashing him a little bit--not that he’d ever admit it. 

Steve clambers awkwardly to his feet and pulls Clint up after him. Clint’s boxers are still around his ankles and he kicks them off, not really seeing the point of them right now. 

Steve’s eyes are intent as he watches Clint, so Clint reaches out and tugs at the hem of Steve’s pants, too. “Off?” 

Steve nods, kicking off his pants and tugging his shirt over his head until he’s naked, too. 

In the bedroom, they collapse onto the bed. Clint has a momentary flash of genius--or maybe just clarity--and snags the lube from the bedside drawer. It’s more than half empty, and he wonders if it’ll last through the amount of sex their bodies force them to engage in.

They curl around each other, drawn together like magnets, Steve’s fingers stroking down Clint’s chest, skating across his abs. They pause on each bruise from the mission, colors darkening slowly on Clint’s skin.

Steve’s fingers bypass his cock entirely, moving instead across his hipbone before going lower, tickling across the insides of Clint’s thighs.

Clint sighs, squirming a little as the world once more narrows down to just the places where Steve’s skin touches Clint’s.

Clint knows what he wants and starts to vocalize it before his brain catches up with his mouth. “Can you—” He cuts himself off, biting his lip and groaning instead.

“What?” Steve rolls him until he’s braced over Clint, one hand by Clint’s hip still but the other cupping Clint’s jaw. Steve’s thumb brushes across Clint’s lips, and Clint sighs again, happily. It’s _so close _to what he wants.

He squirms again, trying to bring himself to just _say it. _Either Steve will say yes or he’ll say no but he’ll never judge Clint for it.

Clint knows that. He does. But it’s kind of hard to not be embarrassed asking for it, anyway.

“Can you hold me down?” he asks, words tripping over one another in his haste to spit them out. He feels himself tense, slightly, as he waits for Steve’s response.

Steve tilts his head in consideration. “Yeah?”

Clint nods, cheeks flushed hot. If he’s lucky, Steve will think the blush has more to do with the sex pollen than the embarrassment of asking. “Please,” he says, and it comes out a little high-pitched.

Steve smiles at him, fingers still soft against Clint’s face. “Yeah, baby, I got you,” he agrees. “Can you put your hands by your head for me?”

Clint does as asked, moving so that he’s lying on his back, but Steve doesn’t do anything right away. He just looks down at Clint, eyes dark, waiting until Clint feels like he’s going to combust from the anticipation of it all.

Only then does Steve shift from where he’s laying next to Clint, moving so that he’s _over _Clint instead. He doesn’t just pin Clint’s arms—although he does circle each of Clint’s wrists with a hand—but also uses his lower body to pin Clint’s legs. Clint’s entirely helpless—he can’t even try to rock up against Steve.

“Okay?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Clint breathes. “Yep, so good.”

Steve’s smile is bright when he leans down to kiss Clint. Clint can’t help but try to arch up into Steve, and he feels himself let out happy little sighs every time he meets with unyielding resistance. He feels dizzy with it—or maybe that’s the kissing—or both?—by the time they break apart again.

Steve looks just as affected as he is, his hair ruffled, his lips pink and puffy, and Clint thinks, _fuck, I did that. _

“Fuck me,” he begs, because he doesn’t have any shame. Not right now, at least; not when it comes to this. “Please, I need you in me, Steve, c’mon.” He one hundred percent doesn’t care that he’s been reduced to babbling.

Steve doesn’t seem to care either. “Yeah,” he agrees, but then he stares at Clint, contemplating. “I want you to keep your hands there.” He says each word carefully, like he’s testing them as he says them out loud.

“Yep, I will, just, fuck, please, _Steve,” _Clint babbles, and Steve’s name comes out as a whine.

Steve smirks at him—unfair, he’s got to be as desperate as Clint by now—and releases Clint’s wrists.

Clint whines instinctively at the loss but gamely clenches his fists around handfuls of the sheet underneath him, a reminder not to move them. His eyes are torn between drifting closed and fixating on every move Steve makes; caught somewhere between the two impulses, he blinks, and then suddenly Steve is settled between his legs, slick fingers circling Clint’s hole. “Relax,” Steve says, and Clint didn’t realize he was tense, but, oh, he totally is.

He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly, trying to relax as he does. It must work well enough, because Steve shifts Clint’s legs to expose him further and then his first finger slipping slowly in, past the ring of muscle.

Clint’s barely got used to one finger when suddenly there’s two, and he cries out, but his body’s back to that pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain loop, so it’s fine. Better than fine, it’s _great, _and he does his best to keep from grinding down against Steve’s hand, but he only partially succeeds. It’s just _so good; _he’s unable to hold back.

Steve’s saying words to him, but Clint can’t focus on them. All he knows is that Steve’s tone is equally as intense as his actions, and that whatever the words are, they’re flattering. It’s really all he needs to know.

Clint loses himself in the sensation, misses it when Steve slips in the third finger, _almost _misses it when Steve pulls all three fingers back out an indiscernible amount of time later.

Clint does _not _miss when the blunt head of Steve’s cock presses against his hole. He clenches against it automatically, not trying to it out, but instead trying to pull it in. “C’mon, Steve, fuck me,” he begs. Steve’s saying words again, rubbing circles against the inside of Clint’s thigh, and he relaxes in a rush.

Steve pushes in then, and Clint sobs in relief. He feels tears leak out of the corners of his eyes, and Steve shushes him gently, brushing them away.

That does less to settle him than when Steve reaches out to pin Clint’s wrists down again. He has to bed Clint a bit to do it, but that just adds to the sensation of being held, contained. It’s so good that Clint tenses in an effort not to come, and Steve grits out, “Fuck, Clint,” biting his own lip as Clint’s ass squeezes around his cock.

Clint doesn’t respond, just uses what little leverage he has to rock against Steve. It’s a small movement, but a small movement is all the encouragement Steve needs. He fucks into Clint, almost gentle for a couple of thrusts until he can’t hold back anymore. Then, he pounds Clint into the mattress, and Clint relishes every second of it.

Neither of them lasts long. “Steve, I gotta—” Clint says, before cutting off with a whimper. He tenses again, holding off his orgasm. He’s not sure how far their new dynamic extends—but that makes him cautious rather than eager to test the limits. And, more than that, he wants Steve to tell him if he can come.

“Do it,” Steve says, a hint of command in his tone, and that’s what finally sends Clint over the edge. Clint’s coming all over both of their stomachs and chests, the stray thought flitting across his consciousness that if they keep these bedroom activities going, he may start getting inappropriate boners on missions.

Ah, well. There are worse things, and all that.

Steve comes just as Clint’s relaxing once more. His hands squeeze around Clint’s wrists—not so hard that he’ll bruise, but enough for him to really _feel _it. He whimpers, because his dick _wants _to be interested, but he’s so worn out.

Steve slumps down a little, and Clint’s legs drop some. In the movement, Steve’s softening cock slides out of Clint’s ass, and he bites back a noise at the loss. He wants to pet Steve’s hair, but Steve’s still got him effectively pinned. It’s a pleasant enough feeling, though, even when not in the middle of sex, so Clint just allows himself to get lost in the feeling of Steve’s body pressed against his, in the security the feeling provides.

When Steve does eventually roll away, he lets go of Clint’s arms. Clint lies there for a moment, remembering how to exist when he’s got the freedom to move his own limbs, and then he rolls onto his side to face Steve. He follows his earlier impulse and cards his fingers through Steve’s hair.

The motion is calming; it should make Steve tired, not Clint, but it has the reverse effect. Clint feels his eyes drifting shut, his fingers slowing until his hand finally drops down to curl against Steve’s broad chest.

“Sleepin’?” Steve asks. His voice is hoarse in a way that Clint feels like a physical tickle against his skin.

“Mm,” he agrees wordlessly.

Steve taps just under his ear, and Clint huffs but goes through the effort of lifting his hand to give Steve a thumbs-up in response. Steve carefully pulls out his mission-grade hearing aids, first the ear facing up, and then supporting Clint’s head with his free hand to retrieve the other. Steve pulls away then and Clint whines, even though he logically knows that Steve’s probably only going far enough away to put them safely on the bedside table.

Tony made them, so they’d probably be hard to break, but they’d never hear the end of it if they lost one in the sheets or something during a particularly enthusiastic bout of sex.

Sex. Clint can feel the hum of _need _still under his skin, but it’s quiet enough that he thinks maybe he can rest first.

The last thing he feels before he drops off is Steve settling an arm around him, pulling Clint close to his chest. The skin-on-skin contact is different, now that the hum is quieter; it still consumes Clint’s attention, but in a way that feels comforting rather than urgent.

He falls asleep with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

**

When Clint wakes up, he’s aware of nothing except how desperately he needs to be touched. Why isn’t he being touched? Isn’t there someone who’s supposed to be touching him?

He can’t hear anything, so it takes him a moment to realize he’s speaking, words falling from his mouth in what feels like a panicked ramble. He doesn’t have enough awareness to know _what _he’s saying, though; he just hopes that if he keeps saying things, maybe _someone _will touch him.

A hand closes around his own, and, oh, his hand is—was—on his cock, but it definitely wasn’t enough. Not like the hand that replaces it.

Clint’s eyes are still shut. He forces them open, adjusting to the dim light of the room, and turns his head to see Steve next to him, propped on his side. He looks tired enough that there’s actually dark circles under his eyes, which is a first, and Clint feels concern for a brief moment before it’s drowned out by _need. _

And, oh, one of the words he’s saying is Steve’s name. That’s fine—good—great. Steve’s amazing. Steve’s hand is, at this exact moment, curled around Clint’s dick, and Clint can _almost _breathe because of it.

Steve mouths a word at him, but Clint doesn’t have the focus for lip-reading. Steve goes to pull away—whether to get Clint’s hearing aids or to sign, Clint doesn’t know—and Clint wails, reaching out to clutch Steve closer. He can feel his lips forming the word “no,” and sees the moment Steve acquiesces.

Steve’s hand doesn’t go straight back to Clint’s cock. Instead, he props himself up on one arm, looking down at Clint. He trails his fingers across Clint’s chest, his arms, his stomach, until Clint’s shaking with how bad he needs _more. _

Finally, Steve moves lower, hand closing around Clint’s cock and squeezing gently. Clint bucks up into his grip, and he feels the vibration of Steve’s laugh even though he’s shut his eyes and can’t see it. He can feel the vibration of whatever words _he’s _saying, too, but he doesn’t care what they are, so long as they encourage Steve to _keep going. _

He strokes Clint maddeningly slow, until Clint’s crying in earnest, so overwhelmed that his nerve endings feel raw. The touch of the sheets against his back feels like needles, somehow, and when Steve swipes his thumb over the head of Clint’s cock, he comes in a rush.

Clint doesn’t realize he’s blacked out until he’s suddenly aware, again. The need has receded, somewhat, but he’s still half-hard, which is… impressive? Not ideal? Both?

“Thanks,” he says. He reaches out and finds Steve’s hand, twining their fingers together, not caring about his own sticky come on Steve’s skin. After a couple of minutes of just breathing and holding on to Steve, he asks, “Aids?”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but he does move away. He’s back a few moments later, dropping two small somethings into Clint’s clean palm. Clint puts them in without needing to look at them, long used to the feel of them between his fingers, and sound returns.

There’s not much sound, mostly just the sound of Steve breathing next to him, loud only because everything else is so quiet.

“You good?” Clint asks him.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I think it’s out of my system.”

Clint tries to pretend he’s not jealous. He fails. “Lucky you.”

Steve leans over to kiss him and Clint moans into the touch. “Not fair,” he says, when Steve pulls away. “You _know _what that does to me.”

Steve’s eyes are dancing. “Yeah,” he admits. “Sorry.”

“You’re not,” Clint points out. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Steve smiles then, a sunshine smile. “Yeah, I am,” he agrees easily. “Are you okay?”

Clint shrugs. “Horny. Hungry. Tired. My dick hurts,” he admits. “Sex pollen sounds so fun in theory.”

Steve gives him a look, telling Clint without words just how much he _doesn’t _buy that. And, okay, so Clint has hang-ups about having control of his actions taken away from him. But the _sex _part is supposed to be fun, at least.

And, well, it _is. _It has been fun. It’s just also been a lot.

“Shit, make me think about something that isn’t sex,” Clint says. “Or I’m gonna get all desperate again.”

“Isn’t that inevitable?”

“My dick needs a break, Steve.”

Steve snorts. “Okay, fine. Drink this then.” Steve snags something off of the side table and holds it out.

Clint groans—the distinctly _un_sexual kind of groaning, too. “Ew, Gatorade? Where’d you get that?”

Steve shrugs. “Nat must’ve left it. Drink it.”

Clint pulls a disgusted face but drinks it. He realizes how desperately thirsty he is the second it hits his stomach, and he drinks all of it down before he can think about it. “Thanks,” he reluctantly concedes. “I needed that.”

Steve smirks at him but doesn’t push it. “Want a shower?”

Clint looks down at himself—come-stained and thoroughly debauched, with some _amazing _hickies standing out against his skin. Then he looks back at Steve and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Want to make it worth my while?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Might as well,” he agrees, sounding put-upon about the whole thing.

Clint shoves him, and then picks up a pillow and smacks him with it for good measure.

Things… maybe devolve into a pillow war at that point. But no one can prove it and they’ll never tell.

**

By the time they make it to the shower, Clint’s dick is hard and his body is starting to thrum with need again. “C’mon, Steve, touch me,” he whines, even as he steps under the spray of the hot water.

Steve follows after him. “Clean first, then touching.”

“You clean me,” Clint haggles. “That’s touching _and_ cleaning; it’s a win-win.”

Steve rolls his eyes. But he also grabs the wash cloth, pours on some soap, and gamely starts to gently wash Clint.

And, fuck. Clint didn’t think that through well enough, because he’s horny and desperate and every brush of the cloth against his sensitive skin is making him shake. “Shit, Steve, I’m—” he bites his lip around a moan as the cloth skates over his nipples. “Fuck, Steve, I can’t.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “No?”

“Fuck, yes, just hurry it up,” Clint whines. “Or I’m gonna fall and hit my head and Nat will kill you.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t go quite as slowly. He cleans the come off of Clint’s skin and washes away the soap, and Clint’s feeling hazy but _good _when Steve’s done. “Can you stand on your own?” Steve asks. It’s only then that Clint realizes he’s been leaning into Steve, only supporting part of his own weight.

“Mm, maybe.” He pushes onto his own feet and he _can, _but he sure wouldn’t rely on it.

Steve knows without needing to be told. He grabs Clint by the shoulders and manouevers him around until his back is against the tiled wall, only his side being hit by the spray, and then Steve drops carefully to his knees. “Can I suck you off?”

“Fuck, please, yes,” Clint agrees. “Just—” He cuts himself off.

“Yeah?” Steve doesn’t move in, even when Clint doesn’t answer.

Clint comes to the unfortunate realization that Steve can outstubborn him; will wait, until Clint’s too desperate not to tell him. “Can you pin my hips? Just so I don’t fall.”

Steve smirks, but he also nods. His hands come up to Clint’s hips, holding more than pinning, and before Clint can say anything, he leans forward and licks up the underside of Clint’s dick.

Without a hand there to steady Clint’s cock, it moves with the pressure of Steve’s tongue and ends up slapping against Steve’s cheek. Steve just grins and curls his tongue around it, licking at it and letting it bob wherever it pleases, and Clint’s going to die.

When Steve finally stops fucking around and sucks the head into his mouth, Clint’s knees shake. That’s when Steve’s hands stop caressing his hips and start to pin him against the wall, actively helping Clint hold up his own weight. That just makes everything better, and Clint moans, feels his cock swell in Steve’s mouth.

Steve doesn’t suck him off gentle or slow. He uses every dirty trick he knows and makes Clint shake and _come, _supporting Clint’s weight from his knees when Clint goes weak in the build-up to his orgasm.

Only when Clint’s come, and Steve has swallowed around him, licking up the bit that dribbled out and mixed with the spit on his chin, wiping the rest away with the back of his hand—only then does Steve allow Clint to sink down onto his ass, the cold tile a shock to his warm skin.

“Shit, that was good,” Clint says.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees.

They rest there for a few moments, but then Steve says, “We should get out.”

He’s right. The water isn’t cold, but Tony will give them a lecture about using too much water, and when _Tony _calls you out, you know it’s bad. “Okay.”

Steve helps Clint stand on still-shaking legs and guides him out of the shower. Clint doesn’t have much energy, just enough to keep himself standing while Steve carefully towels first Clint, then himself dry.

“More sleep?” Steve asks.

Clint nods.

He doesn’t really remember Steve guiding him to the bed. Honestly, it’s just as likely that Steve carried him.

One moment, he’s nodding, and the next, he’s waking up _under blankets, _and he feels… normal.

He turns on his side and sees Steve there, reading a book. “What’s up?” he asks.

His aids are still in, so he can’t have been asleep for too long. If he’d slept through the night, or a similarly long amount of time, Steve would have removed them for him.

Steve looks at him and blinks, coming back to the real world and out of whatever world his book is in, and he smiles. “Not much. How do you feel?”

“Better,” Clint says, stretching slowly and pushing down the sheets. “Hungry as fuck, though.”

“Team’s having dinner in half an hour,” Steve tells him. Clint makes a face. “It’s pizza night.”

“Ugh, I guess,” Clint agrees. Then, tentatively, he says, “or…”

“Or?”

“Or, we could go on a date?”

They’re together. They’ve been together. But the most date-like thing they’ve done is go to the coffee shop in the lobby.

Steve grins at him. “Oh? What did you have in mind?”

“Well, pizza,” Clint admits. “But… just us.”

Steve beams, like so bright he could be a fucking spotlight. “Sounds great.”

Clint smiles to himself and, yeah, okay, this wasn’t all bad. “I’m not putting out, though,” he says. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’d be worried if you did,” he comments.

“…is that a challenge?”

“Is your dick up to it?”

Clint considers. “Wanna find out?”

Steve laughs. “Date first. Pizza, then maybe sex.”

“Okay,” Clint agrees. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes? We can totally sneak out before the team catches us.”

“Deal,” Steve agrees. He leans in for one last kiss. Clint almost expects to feel the thrumming need pulse through him, but it doesn’t—at least, not in the same way. It’s still there, that magnetic pull of attraction between them, but mostly he’s just aware of how soft Steve’s lips are, how warm and content he feels.

Then Steve pulls away, and Clint collapses back in bed. This may be a date, but he’s just going to put on ripped jeans and whatever button up he can find—the purple one would be best, but there might be one with flowers on it that Kate bought him a while back?

His phone buzzes, and he picks it up. It’s a text from Nat, simply reading, _glad u didn’t die. _

Before he can answer, it’s followed by another text: _wear the blue shirt it brings out ur eyes. _

He laughs quietly; of _course _Nat already knows. He doesn’t question it, just texts back, _thnx, _and goes to get ready for his long-awaited date.


End file.
